Lucy

The sculptor carves the stone, till he beholds
Its lessening bulk his finer thought fulfil;
The flesh and blood our heavenly Artist moulds,
Wax'd fuller, while He wrought it fairer still,
As Lucy grew to woman. Not a girl
In all the village wore her gracious look:
But each her dear pre-eminence could brook,
Nor wish'd a duller gloss on the least curl
Of her bright auburn hair. Love came to woo
In humblest guise, yet no coquettish guile
Depraved the honest beauty of her smile;
Her goodness raised and better'd those who drew
The lot of the rejected, for they knew
Her utter truth and sweetness all the while!